


The Model's Artist

by sweetcarolanne



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Ancestors, Artists, Canon-Typical Violence, Decadence, Evolution, Gen, Ghouls, Horror, Lovecraftian, M/M, Minor Violence, Strong Female Characters, Unrequited Love, Witchcraft, Witches, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcarolanne/pseuds/sweetcarolanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into Richard Upton Pickman's family history, and his ever stranger future... and a view of what really happened in the cellar of his secret studio!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Model's Artist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunchales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunchales/gifts).



> Dear Sunchales, I saw all your awesome prompts and knew I had to write something for you, but there were so many good ones there that it was hard to choose just one. So I went with a character I have never tried writing before, but have always been fascinated by. I do hope you like this!
> 
> Disclaimer: I am making no money from this work and just borrowing the characters for fun.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta who wishes to remain anonymous.

Richard Upton Pickman, skilled as he was at reading faces and reproducing the emotions he saw there on canvas, prided himself upon being a good judge of character. He could look searchingly into eyes, human or otherwise, and observe each quirk of bodily movement, to decipher for himself someone's intent and likely actions. Most of the time, Pickman's surmises were correct. However, to his chagrin, of late Richard Upton Pickman's not at all hasty, and even carefully considered, judgement of both human and non-human nature had been drastically wrong.

He should never have brought that man Thurber to his secret studio! Oh, he hated to admit it to himself, but Pickman had made one of the greatest mistakes of his entire life by allowing Thurber to become so deeply embroiled in his world, and to take him so trustingly into his confidence. Pickman ruefully supposed that he had, in error, believed Thurber's hero-worship and ardent admiration of Pickman's artistic technique and unusual subject matter to be genuine affection. Thurber's intelligence and willingness to contemplate the gruesome and terrifying aspects of life and art had been points of great attraction for Pickman - Thurber alone seemed drawn to Pickman and his art at a time when others seemed frightened of, and disgusted with, the painter and what he created. Pickman had actually been on the verge of an attempt at seduction on that fateful evening when he had brought his erstwhile admirer to the studio near the graveyard in Boston's North End, to show him his very best works. This was the studio he had entered at that very moment, his brow creased with worry and the deepest disappointment he had felt in many a year.

Yes, Pickman had actually dared to believe he could have made a lover of the man he had thought of, until the previous night, as a true friend. A sharp mind and an adventurous spirit were, to Richard Upton Pickman, far more exciting and erotic qualities in a man (he had the greatest respect for women, but had never desired them) than good looks could ever be. 

Randolph Carter, the only one till then of Pickman's friends or lovers to have ever seen the secret studio that Pickman had hired under the name of Peters, possessed all these excellent traits, Pickman found himself thinking rather wistfully. Perhaps it was because he was missing Carter, who was off on one of his frequent and lengthy dream-quests again, that Pickman had allowed himself to get so close to Thurber, to let the other man see the realm of fearsome beauty which he inhabited.

Pickman reached the damp stairs of the cellar where he painted, and began his descent. It had been in that very room where he had realized that bringing Thurber to this place, to view the most skilfully executed and most intensely horrific of his artworks, both finished and unfinished, was an unmitigated disaster. As Pickman had unveiled what he considered to to be his greatest work yet, though it was still incomplete, Thurber had actually screamed aloud, and his cry of fear had not been the first that night.

With that single action, Thurber had revealed himself to be a craven coward, just like the other weak-minded fools at the Art Club, and not the man of exotic tastes and daring passions that Pickman so longed for as a companion and beloved.

"He is not only cowardly," Pickman muttered to himself through gritted teeth as he approached the door of the main cellar, opened it and went into that dark, grim room, "he's an absolute damned idiot for doing what he did! If he'd known what lies beyond this door, he'd have kept his cursed mouth shut!"

From the moment Thurber had uttered his second scream, Pickman had feared the worst, and the sounds he had heard in the ensuing moments, the unmistakable scraping and clattering, confirmed his fears. They were the sounds of imminent danger - for Thurber, at the very least. 

Pickman was not afraid for his own safety. But after that night's events he was beginning to wonder how long his present existence could continue.

When he heard those sounds, Pickman had drawn his revolver and made a sign for Thurber to be quiet before entering the room where he now stood, closing the door behind him. His face was set in a steely glare, and his jaw clenched and jutted, a challenge to the group of unruly youngsters he then saw before him.

It was the twins, of course, who were in charge of that unholy rabble. They had the others attacking the walls with their clawed hands and hoof-like feet, not to mention their viciously sharp teeth. Blood-lust was upon them, and Pickman knew that he would need more than words of reason to deter them. 

"Get back, you brats!" he had roared at them in their own tongue. "Didn't I tell you never to harm anyone I bring to this place?" And he fired all six chambers of his revolver into the air, sending all but the ringleaders into a frenzy of fright. The erstwhile attackers fled, uttering frightened meeps; some of them thudding against the walls and bruising their rubbery skin in their efforts to escape. Only the twins remained behind; the sister, who was the bolder of the two, actually resumed a little scraping at the door, motioning for her brother to follow suit. The male twin moved forward slightly, but a low growl of warning uttered by the stone-faced Pickman stopped him in his tracks, and made the female of the pair cease her activity. She tilted her head and regarded him with her blazing red eyes; Pickman knew that she was intelligent enough to realize that he had no more bullets.

"He's not like the other one you bring here. This one could get you killed. He could get us all killed. Let us have him!" she glibbered at Pickman, her claws poised to begin scraping at the walls or door anew. Pickman kept his gaze stern and his tone harsh as he replied.

"You know I can't do that! I have made a solemn, sacred vow that I will never aid you - any of you - in such acts. Are there not graveyards enough in this city for you to find your nourishment?"

Reluctantly the female twin moved away from the door. Her pointed ears were drawn back like those of an angry dog, and her lips, slick with drool, were pulled up to reveal the yellowed points of fangs.

"Only because it's you, we will leave now," she snarled. "But that one in there, I know he means you harm. And some day, I shall come for him again. Wherever he lives, I shall find him!"

And she was gone in an instant, her brother slinking out behind her. Their movements were more silent than the exit of their peers had been.

Which made the memory of their visit all the more chilling now as Pickman waited for the one he had come to meet in the cellar. She whose portrait had caused the unfortunate Thurber so much consternation.

He saw her approach, more slowly than she had for their past meetings, for although her form was still imposing, and most menacing to the uninitiated, caked in mold and faintly green in hue, with eyes that still glowed an eerie shade of scarlet, the weight of years was beginning to take its toll upon her. Her kind could live for centuries if they did not meet with fatal violence. 

His kind, too, Pickman reminded himself. For this model of his was kin to him - his three-times-great-grandmother, in fact. The daughter of his witch ancestor; as a human child of twelve this being before him had wept as her mother was hanged on Salem's Gallows Hill.

And at night, the ghouls had mourned her mother in their own way; Pickman had, of course painted them into one of his earliest works as they bayed beneath her hanging corpse. For the witch, born Miriam Upton, had been the changeling child who had brought the ghoulish blood into his family line.

"It is as I feared, Old One," Pickman said at last, speaking the language of the ghouls, for his still-living ancestor no longer understood the human tongue. He addressed her by the respectful title due an elder ghoul, and she acknowledged his deference and affection with a graceful nod. 

"He took the picture made from light that you made of me?" Her voice was more croak than fluid glibber, but Pickman understood the meaning of her words; she was referring to the photograph he had taken of her so that he could continue painting when she was no longer there to sit for him.

"Yes, he took it. And the twins now seek to put an end to him."

The ancient ghoul uttered something that could have been a sigh, were she still human. "These young ones - they crave living flesh and fresh blood more than anything. They are not content to merely feast upon the dead as I and those like me do. And each day they grow more brash and confident; soon even I will not be able to limit their predatory ways. If you cling to the world of men, my child, soon they will lose the respect that they have had for you for so long, and begin to challenge and defy you."

Pickman's model drew closer to him, and laid a clawed hand gently on his arm. "It is time for a new leader of our kind to emerge, and I believe that leader should be you. It is time for you to leave this life of yours behind, and begin the journey to becoming one of us." 

The artist heaved a reluctant sigh himself, and knew that she was right.


End file.
